


not the heart

by alamorn



Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Light Bondage, as it cried out to be, the lasso of truth used for sexy purposes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 00:25:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11070210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/pseuds/alamorn
Summary: With a twitch, the lasso settles tight around his neck, pressing just under the bulge of his throat. She swallows, mouth dry suddenly. “Tell me,” she says. “Are men good for pleasure?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from the lovely poem "The Truth" by Carl Phillips
> 
>  
> 
> _The wooden boat is_  
>  not the heart,  
> the wave the flesh,  
> the rock the soul— 
> 
>  
> 
> _and if we thought so, we have merely been_  
>  that long  
> mistaken. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Also,_  
>  about the shore: it doesn’t  
> mean all trespass  
> is forgiven, if nightly  
> the sand is cleared of  
> any sign  
> we were here. 

Steve closes the door, eyes dark and intense and she feels…settled. Sure, for once, in this strange place. She has read the books, even if she has not touched a man before. She knows what he wants from her.

She knows what she wants from him.

He did not bring his gun up to her room, and she did not bring her sword or shield. Her lasso is still looped at her hip, when she lets her cloak fall to the ground, and she sees his eyes fasten on it, dull as it is.

Her hand twitches to it, rests on the smooth fibers. “I have a question for you,” she says. “Will you answer it truly?”

He licks his lips. “Could I stop you?”

“No,” she says, “but this is not the battlefield. Here, you are not a spy. Or at least, I hope you are not.”

The corner of his mouth twitches up. “No. Would it make you feel better if you knew?”

“Yes,” she says.

Deliberately, never breaking eye contact, he goes to his knees before her. With a twitch, the lasso settles tight around his neck, pressing just under the bulge of his throat. She swallows, mouth dry suddenly. “Tell me,” she says. “Are men good for pleasure?”

“I am,” he says. “I would like to put my mouth on you.”

“Ah,” she says, and sits on the edge of the bed, tugs him closer by the lasso. He shuffles forward on his knees without protest, settling easily between her spread thighs. His hands alight on the tops of her boots and slide up, passing to skin without hesitation, running all the way up to flip her skirt out of the way. His hands are rough, calloused in different places than the women she grew up with. No sword or bow callouses for him, but the pad of his index finger is rough. It’s different, and she shivers.

He leans down to rubs his cheek against the smooth skin of her inner thigh. His stubble is the true shock, prickly and rough, leaving red, irritated skin where he presses it. She’s not sure whether she likes it or not, and then his nose bumps the gusset of her armor.

He huffs warm breath against her skin, then looks up, blue eyes creased at the corners. “Bit of an obstacle here.”

“You can’t work through it?” she teases. “I thought you said you were skilled at pleasure.”

He grins at her. “Challenge me another time,” he says. “Right now I just want to get you off as quickly as possible. I bet you’re beautiful when you come.” He looks faintly embarrassed to have said it, but doesn’t strain against the lasso.

Heat rolls through her. “In that case,” she says, and strips quickly, leaving her boots and bracers on. He does not undress at all, though she can see the front of his pants tenting.

He teases her with tongue and teeth, fingers digging into her thighs, lasso tight around his throat. He works her until her hair is soaked with sweat, her head thrown back, the heel of her boot digging into his back, his hand pressed hard against the front of his pants, and then finally, finally, he tips her over the edge.

She melts. There’s a golden moment where her aches dissolve and her mind goes blissfully clear. The war is outside, when she comes back to herself. All there is in this room is her, and Steve Trevor, on his knees, blue eyes electric and painfully earnest.

She tugs on the lasso to make him look up at her, then leans down to kiss the taste of herself out of his mouth. “You were telling the truth,” she says. “I’m glad.”


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn’t move from his spot between her legs, just waits, eyes blown wide. She licks her lips, the tangy taste of herself a bright reminder of how hard he has been working.

“You will tell me what to do?” She meant it as a demand but it slips out breathy, a little nervous.

He huffs a laugh, pushes his hair back. “I’m not sure there’s anything you _could_ do that I wouldn’t like,” he says, and looks a little cross at the truth being dragged out of him.

“That’s not helpful,” she says. Then, “Undress. I would like to see you.”

He shucks his clothes neatly, folds them and puts them to the side before returning to his knees. His nudity now is different than in the bath, more charged. What had been just another bit of flesh is changed now, hard and demanding attention.

She reaches a curious hand down and runs her fingertip around the head. Steve’s mouth drops open, just the littlest bit. The skin is so soft, the tip spongy and strange under her finger. When she wraps her hand around the solid length of him, it’s like iron under silk.

Slowly, she pulls her hand from bottom to top. He groans, a little, then grabs her wrist and pulls her hand to his mouth. He licks her palm, nips the pad of her index finger, then puts it back, wrapping his hand around hers to correct her grip.

He sets a faster pace than she expected and his eyes sink close. He releases her hand and she slows a little, enjoying the way his eyelids flutter, the way his eyebrows twist together, the small jumps and shocks in his stomach and arms.

“You’re beautiful,” she tells him and his eyes fly open. She draws him up onto the bed with her, to save her shoulder from the angle, and he perches next to her, suddenly uncomfortable. She can’t help but smile — sleeping next to her made him uncomfortable and now being on a level does as well? For a man that told her the point is to be close, he shrinks from her presence.

“Do I scare you?” she asks and the lasso glows gold.

“Yes,” he says. “No. Sometimes.”

She keeps her hand moving slowly while she thinks that over. “Good,” she says, eventually.

He huffs out a surprised laugh again, just a wisp of amusement.

“I hope you are not afraid now,” she says.

“No,” he says. “Not now.”

Reassured, she runs her eyes down his body and eyes his erection. She almost wants to put her mouth on it like he did with her, but she likes to be able to watch him. Instead, she loosens the lasso so that it drapes on his collarbones like a golden necklace. Then she drops the rest in his lap so it rest in loose loops on his thighs and around his erection, her hand.

She does not need to steer him when he comes so eagerly at her call, after all.

“I’m close,” he says, breath stuttering out of him.

She twists her hand as she pulls, and leans forward to kiss him. When she bites his lip, he comes with a sigh, spurting in her hand.

While he cleans himself up, she takes off her boots and bracers and settles in the bed. He looks down on her, eyes soft, but makes no move to get in.

“A reliable source told me that the average man sleeps,” she says, reaching up to grab his wrist. “You wouldn’t want to make a liar of him.”

He tilts his head, eyes creasing. “It wouldn’t do at all,” he agrees, and crawls into bed with her.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr @alamorn if you're into that sort of thing


End file.
